


Weekend at the Haunted Manor

by Niedzilla



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Action/Adventure, Attempt at Humor, Gen, Horror, Markiplier - Freeform, WKM verse, jacksepticeye - Freeform, markiplier/jacksepticeye - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 21:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12968652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niedzilla/pseuds/Niedzilla
Summary: "To Mr. Jameson Jackson,...About the late Mr. Markiplier, I understand your concern. However, it was in regards to your own safety that I advise you to let the matter rest. In the months before his death, he had dabbled in something bigger than himself, endangering the few people who were close to him, and reaped what he sow."And so the story began.





	Weekend at the Haunted Manor

**Author's Note:**

> My second fic on this site. It’s not a slash fic, pls don’t hate. Also, chapter 2 never.

* * *

00.

_To Mr. Jameson Jackson,_

_I apologise if my letter had reach you a bit late. I have to admit I was rather suspicious when I found a letter from one of Mr. Markiplier’s old acquaintance. I did remember him mentioning you a few times. Something about ‘a big fan of his works’ that he met in a biannual ball of YT publisher? Initially, I thought the peculiar title pertained to one of his last guests, but it was apparent that was a mistake on my part._

_About the late Mr. Markiplier, I understand your concern. However, it was in regards to your own safety that I advise you to let the matter rest. In the months before his death, he had dabbled in something bigger than himself, endangering the few people who were close to him, and reaped what he sow. I believe it would be wrong for us to open this particular can of worm which I am sure will land you in peril._

_You asked me why there’s no funeral if he’s really dead. Well, Mr. Jackson, it’s not like me to let the cat out of the bag, but I have this nagging feeling that if I don’t tell you, you’d try to figure it out yourself. The truth is Mr. Markiplier’s body had disappeared not long after we found it. His last guests and I had seen with our own eyes the dead body of late Mr. Markiplier. The detective, which was one of our guests, even announced that his cause of death was due to a gunshot and multiple stab wounds. We hadn’t figured out how that happened. But, when two of our esteemed guests disappeared inside of the house shortly after, the house staffs decided that the manor was too dangerous. The rest of the guests didn’t heed our warning and was not heard from ever again. That does put us in a bit of conundrum, for we can’t really explain to the authority how exactly these series of unfortunate events unfolded._

_Now, Mr. Jackson, that you’ve hear the truth straight from the horse’s mouth, I implore you once again to avoid the manor and to let the matter rest. As people would say, curiosity kills the cat. And it did kill three in cold-blood._

_That being said, with this letter, I enclose a few papers from the manor that I had forgotten to get rid of. It will be a lie if I say I do not want to know what these paper entails and if they had any connection to the disappearance of the lord of the house and his guests. Make of it as you will, but remember to be rid of them after. I do afraid of the consequences._

_Respectfully,_

_The Former Butler of the Markiplier Manor,_

_Tyler Scheid_

* * *

01.

It was a morning in the early October when Robin found Jack perusing over a letter by the fireplace. That in itself was not something he found peculiar. Letters were one of Jack’s preferred method of correspondence, after all. Considering writing was their job, Robin did understand that. What Robin did find interesting, however, was that Jack had chosen to read this particular letter while he was sitting by the fireplace instead of his study.

Robin found it even more peculiar that Jack burnt the letter by throwing it inside the fireplace immediately after he finished reading. Robin caught a glance of what seemed to be drawings of some sort before the papers burnt out completely. He couldn’t wrap his head around Jack’s sudden fascination in burning drawings, so he asked.

“Why are you setting papers on fire?” Robin asked.

Jack shrugged. “Destroying evidence?”

Jack’s answer were more of a question than an answer but Robin left it at that because he had more pressing matters. For example, if Jack was sure he’s including a few passage that Robin was sure was his drunk writing into his new book because it’s so disruptive and sudden and came out of the left field. The Irish man rarely got himself drunk, contrary to the stereotype. But, when he did, boy, he could ramble about nothing for hours and hours, or in this case, typed about nonsensical things for pages.

When confronted about it, Jack was surprised.

“I wrote that?” he asked in disbelief.

“Yes. You even typed in a note to me not to publish it.”

“…Nice forewarning.”

And, for a while, the mater of the burnt letter was forgotten.

It took Robin a few days to realise that, while he could easily let the matter rest, Jack did not. Robin noticed how distracted he looked over the week and how his gaze often wandered to the fireplace where the ashes of a letter resided. When asked, Jack often change the subject quickly. It worried him. Especially after he found several strange books pertaining to occultism on Jack’s desk. While researching peculiar subjects for the sake of writing was something common, Jack usually told him what kind of thing he was researching in case Robin had to edit that for him later.

Moreover, Jack was setting up correspondences that no one else was privy to, which miffed Signe to no end. Signe asked Robin if he knew anything about it, which of course he didn’t and even if he did he was not sure if he should told Signe about it. Robin asked if even Signe was not privy to it, how she thought that Robin even knew anything about it. Signe reluctantly conceded to his point.

Three weeks later, like a bolt from the blue, Jack declared, “Let’s go sightseeing.”

Robin had just walked into Jack’s study with a book he just finished editing that morning in hand. To be specific, Jack’s finished book which was not going to be published in another two months and Robin didn’t know why they rushed it when they could expand on the subjects a bit more. Well, he knew why then.

“Okay,” Robin agreed, somewhat. “Where?”

“A manor somewhere.” Jack pointing the wall beside Robin. “Over there.”

Robin looked at the wall by the door where Jack had placed his blackboard where he often wrote his schedule or words in colourful chalks to uplift the mood. But instead of the usual writings, Jack had pinned several newspaper clippings, pins and strings, and pictures on the top of his pristine blackboard. When Robin looked at the headlines, he noticed that the articles were about the disappearances of people, most of them presumed dead. There were strings connecting people and location and right at the centre of it was a picture of the manor. And the red string from the house ended on a yellow pin on the right side of a _world map_.

“America?” he asked. “Why?”

“It’s a special occurrence.”

“You’re special occurrence,” Robin grumbled.

Robin wasn’t surprised about the location really. Robin wasn’t really surprised considering they often attended some gatherings over the ocean a few times a year. _A few times_ as in _twice_ a year. At _most_.

Okay, he was surprised.

Robin asked, “What’s so special about this manor, then?”

If it warranted them to travel that far, he’d want to at least know what’s so special about that place. What he’s going up _against,_ at the worst case. And, considering what usually happened when they traveled for _fun_ , that had become more and more likely (Robin still remembered the incident from when they were kept as prisoners on a hijacked train a year back).

“Somebody told me that people had disappeared inside that manor,” was the only thing Jack cared to divulge.

“Riveting,” Robin commented, “You shouldn’t listen to ‘somebody’; they never tell the truth.”

“No,” Jack agreed. “But they didn’t tell me a whole lie either.”

“Fine. Have you set anything up? Traveling, inn, transport? How about the publisher? I assume you’ve already talked it over with the editor in chief and that’s why you got the book ready two months in advance?”

“Yup. I still need to call the inn though. And I need to ask Signe too.”

“You haven’t tell her?”

“About that—I forgot?”

“…Call the inn now before you forget about it too. I’ll go get Signe.”

“Sure.”

* * *

02.

Robin found Signe at the kitchen downstairs. She was sipping a mug of tea and drawing sketches at the dining table. She looked like she was just woken up, but when she saw Robin, her eyes became more alert.

“Finally. He told you first?” Signe asked without prompting.

She knew what Robin was there for, it appeared.

“I think he was telling anyone who cross his doorway first,” Robin truthfully surmised.

Signe accepted Robin’s answer. “Too bad I was busy drawing this morning.”

Robin looked over the pages and pages of sketches piling on top of the dining table. Her drawing style was different than his. His style was more simple and technical whereas her style was more cartoon-like, full of lines and colours. Although they have differing styles, he could still appreciate her drawings. Like Jack, he did enjoy reading comics and watching cartoons.

“Are you busy?” Robin questioned her. It would be bad if their sudden ‘sightseeing’ interrupted her schedule.

“Not really, just doing some freelance works for a magazine. I already did three different ones in case they didn’t like it.”

“What if they like all three?”

“Then I could have three months off.”

Robin sighed. “Let’s hope that’s the case.”

“We’re traveling somewhere, aren’t we,” she was stating more than asking him.

Robin nodded anyway. “To America.”

“America,” she repeated. “He’s still hiding something else?”

“Well.” Robin decided that he was really good at giving diplomatic answers and proceed to do just that. “You’re better at extracting information from him than I am.”

Signe was getting good at accepting his diplomatic answers too, Robin noticed. She just sighed and follow him to Jack’s study upstairs.

* * *

 

03.

Jack was still on the phone when Signe and Robin entered his study. He appeared to be spelling Robin’s name backwards. Or at least something along that line.

“-O-T N-I-B-O-R. Jameson Jackson and Rakrot Nibor. Excuse me?" Jack listened in while trying to stifle a laugh. He covered the mouthpiece and asked aloud, “Robin, the receptionist lady asked if you’re German.”

Robin frowned at that. "Nope. Thank you very much. And I'm highly offended."

Jack rolled his eyes. He told the lady on the phone, " _So_ German."

Robin would like to tell him off for it, but he was distracted by a whisper.

“This is it then?” Signe asked Robin, motioning to the blackboard full of strings, articles, and pictures. She wondered, “He must have put it up last night.”

“Last night? It was quite elaborate.”

“It was,” she agreed. She asked Jack, “How long have you been studying this?”

Jack who was putting the handset back to its place glanced at the wall at the other end of the room where the blackboard full of notes resided.

“Roughly two weeks,” Jack answered.

Robin doubted that. “All of these in two weeks?”

“Well,” Jack explained, “It’s easier when you have an insider spilling the beans.”

Robin frowned. “Those occult books, though. You studied them?”

“Just the outlines. The very basic outlines.”

Signe asked in a concerned tone, “Occult?”

“Yes. I started a cult named Jacksepticult and one followers died for me today,” Jack said in a spooky voice. In a more normal tone he added, “Nah, there’s just a rumour about people disappearing left and right inside of a house and no one found them yet. It’s an old house. So, logically, people are calling it ghost and put a lid on it.”

“That makes sense.” Robin nodded.

“As long as it isn’t a real ghost, I’m in,” Signe said in relief. She frowned. “But you think they’re trapped in that house?”

“Either that or someone trapped them.” Jack pointed out the picture. “It’s an old manor dated a few centuries. Passed down from generation to generation. I won’t be surprised if there’s hidden rooms and trapdoors in there.”

Signe pointed at the newspaper clippings. “But the dates, they’ve been missing for what, a year?”

“Yeah.” Jack sighed. “If there’s anyone there, it’ll be long since they’ve left the building.”

“Left the building,” Robin repeated tentatively. “Ha. I get it.”

* * *

05.

Despite his mild fear of height, Jack was alright with plane rides. As long as he didn’t sit close to the window and look down, he’d be just fine. Planes were just enclosed space and therefore safe. There’s no wind hitting his face directly. And really, Jack considered chatting away with fellow passengers and drinking Jack and Coke a time well spent. The fellow passengers, being Robin and Signe, were only mildly amused when they realised that Jack had one too many glass and started his exposition about a thousand different subjects, also known as drunken rambling. Robin was trying to fish for more information about their destination even though he kept failing miserably. He only stopped when Signe told him to cut it and let Jack sleep it off.

“I saw him burning a letter in the fireplace,” Robin complained to her.

Signe sighed. “When I saw those occult books on his desk, I was afraid whatever we’re going to face will involve—people who believed in dark magic, ghosts, and such. In fact, right now I still believe that’s the case.”

Robin approved of her way of thinking. “This wasn’t as simple as a missing person case and whoever Jack got the information from believed that the occult is involved, I agree. Do you believe in the occult?”

Signe shook her head.

“Neither do I. But I learned a thing or two just because I thought it was a research for his next book. If whoever is involved in this tried to do something—weird, I’ll stop it, for sure.”

It was odd to find out that out of the three of them, Jack was the only one who actually believed in superstitions and such. Well, actually Robin believed that Jack believed that occult was involved in that case just because _someone_ warned him about it. Robin thought Jack’s explanation about secret chambers and serial killer hiding his crime was more plausible. It was an old house and, really, everyone always had a reason to kill everyone else.

Once, Robin heard a saying: _when examined closely, ghosts are just withered flowers_ , and he completely agreed with that. Most of the occult happenstance could be explained through science. That was why when they finally stood at the gate of the Manor, he thought of the slimy feeling that crept up his spine as nothing more than a cold wind.

To be fair, by the time they arrived at the manor, it was already late in the afternoon. Under the dark cloudy October sky, the manor appeared gloomy and just a little intimidating. The manor towers over the trees. Robin was impressed by the sheer size of it. It was more of a small castle than anything else. There was something off about it though. Probably the faded, peeled off paint from the wall and mouldy roof tiles from all of the nonexistent maintenance it had over the year.

“There’s something fishy with this place,” Robin thought out loud.

Jack sighed. “Nah, that’s just you.”

They were still sitting inside a rented car, calmly inspecting the manor from afar. None of them made a move to get out. None of them made a move at all. They sat in silence for a while.

“I think we should just go to the inn and leave the detective works for tomorrow morning,” Signe voiced their unsaid thought.

“Agreed.”

As the car rolled away, Robin thought he saw a shadow of a person by the top floor window. But he also thought he didn’t, because whoever was supposed to be there had to have left the building already.

Right?

* * *

 


End file.
